battle long ago.
Maybe that’s why Julia decided to drive. We swung through the Burger King drive-through on the way. I settled back in plush comfort as we headed north on cruise control and french fry fumes.
As we entered the D.C. commuting area, we passed an area where new construction was going up. It’s what I think of as ‘executive tract housing’, two million dollar homes on half-acre lots.
“I don’t understand that,” I said, waving at the houses. “If you’re going to buy a manor house, isn’t it supposed to be on an estate?”
“June says the younger two-income families like them,” Julia said. Her daughter June sells real estate. “Not as much yard to worry about. She says they think it’s cozy.”
“Cozy, I’ll say. If I was going to spend that much money for a house, I’d buy something where the next door neighbors couldn’t peer right into the breakfast nook.”
“The owners aren’t doing anything scandalous in the breakfast nook,” Julia answered wisely. “They’re too tired.”
“Poor things.”
There’s new Reston and old Reston. Old Reston is a figurative term; there are cars still on the road that are older. The houses were Sixties ranchers and bungalows, the trees and shrubs are well-established, and most yards were enclosed with chain-link fences to give the dogs some room to run. There was a nice solid middle-class feel to the area.
These houses were built back in the days when a single income blue-collar family could afford a nice home in the suburbs. Now they sat on lots that were worth more than the houses.
Wayne Harkey lived in one of these chain-link domains. He had lavished a great deal of attention to the yard. The walk was edged with iris and hosta, and I could see a rose trellis in the side yard.
We entered the gate cautiously, but met no dogs. The man who answered the doorbell seemed a nondescript sort. He was dressed for work in a one-piece jumpsuit with the name of a delivery company on the pocket. He had a receding hairline and donut belly. “You Mrs. Rayburn? Come on in.”
“This is my friend, Julia Barstow,” I told him as we entered.
“Your husband lost in Nam?” he asked her.
“Oh, no,” Julia answered. “I’m just driving for Cissy.”
We were escorted into the living room and sat down on the sofa. I felt foolish and uneasy, unsure where to start. Thank God for Julia. She leaned forward and confided with Sunday School earnestness, “You see, Mr. Harkey, we’re both worried about Jack – that’s Cissy’s husband. This Winslow showed up at the Rayburns’ place with some cock and bull story about Cissy’s first husband being alive, and then a few days later, he’s stabbed with Jack’s pruning shears. The police seem to think that Jack has a motive, but those of us who know him know that he’d not hurt a fly.”
“What kind of cock and bull story?” Harkey wanted to know.
“That’s just it!” I entered the conversation eagerly now. “He had a picture that he said might be Jimmy, but we’ve tracked it down and it’s someone totally different, and Winslow had to have known that.”
Harkey’s face darkened. “That bastard!” He stood up. “Wait a minute, I want to show you something.”
He left the room and we heard him go into the kitchen and rummage through a drawer. When he returned, he had a photograph in his hand. He handed it to me. “What do you think of that?”
I looked at it in bemusement. “What is it?”
“It’s an aerial photograph.”
“Oh. So these little sticks are trees?” He nodded. “And this must be a river. Well, so what?” I handed the photo over to Julia, who looked at it one way, then turned it around and looked at it again from that angle.
Harkey grinned. “Don’t you see the signal?”
We both looked at him and shook our heads.
“This is the photo that supposedly proved my dad is still alive. See there,” he traced some lines on the photo. “That’s where he made his marks
Maybe that’s why Julia decided to drive. We swung through the Burger King drive-through on the way. I settled back in plush comfort as we headed north on cruise control and french fry fumes.
As we entered the D.C. commuting area, we passed an area where new construction was going up. It’s what I think of as ‘executive tract housing’, two million dollar homes on half-acre lots.
“I don’t understand that,” I said, waving at the houses. “If you’re going to buy a manor house, isn’t it supposed to be on an estate?”
“June says the younger two-income families like them,” Julia said. Her daughter June sells real estate. “Not as much yard to worry about. She says they think it’s cozy.”
“Cozy, I’ll say. If I was going to spend that much money for a house, I’d buy something where the next door neighbors couldn’t peer right into the breakfast nook.”
“The owners aren’t doing anything scandalous in the breakfast nook,” Julia answered wisely. “They’re too tired.”
“Poor things.”
There’s new Reston and old Reston. Old Reston is a figurative term; there are cars still on the road that are older. The houses were Sixties ranchers and bungalows, the trees and shrubs are well-established, and most yards were enclosed with chain-link fences to give the dogs some room to run. There was a nice solid middle-class feel to the area.
These houses were built back in the days when a single income blue-collar family could afford a nice home in the suburbs. Now they sat on lots that were worth more than the houses.
Wayne Harkey lived in one of these chain-link domains. He had lavished a great deal of attention to the yard. The walk was edged with iris and hosta, and I could see a rose trellis in the side yard.
We entered the gate cautiously, but met no dogs. The man who answered the doorbell seemed a nondescript sort. He was dressed for work in a one-piece jumpsuit with the name of a delivery company on the pocket. He had a receding hairline and donut belly. “You Mrs. Rayburn? Come on in.”
“This is my friend, Julia Barstow,” I told him as we entered.
“Your husband lost in Nam?” he asked her.
“Oh, no,” Julia answered. “I’m just driving for Cissy.”
We were escorted into the living room and sat down on the sofa. I felt foolish and uneasy, unsure where to start. Thank God for Julia. She leaned forward and confided with Sunday School earnestness, “You see, Mr. Harkey, we’re both worried about Jack – that’s Cissy’s husband. This Winslow showed up at the Rayburns’ place with some cock and bull story about Cissy’s first husband being alive, and then a few days later, he’s stabbed with Jack’s pruning shears. The police seem to think that Jack has a motive, but those of us who know him know that he’d not hurt a fly.”
“What kind of cock and bull story?” Harkey wanted to know.
“That’s just it!” I entered the conversation eagerly now. “He had a picture that he said might be Jimmy, but we’ve tracked it down and it’s someone totally different, and Winslow had to have known that.”
Harkey’s face darkened. “That bastard!” He stood up. “Wait a minute, I want to show you something.”
He left the room and we heard him go into the kitchen and rummage through a drawer. When he returned, he had a photograph in his hand. He handed it to me. “What do you think of that?”
I looked at it in bemusement. “What is it?”
“It’s an aerial photograph.”
“Oh. So these little sticks are trees?” He nodded. “And this must be a river. Well, so what?” I handed the photo over to Julia, who looked at it one way, then turned it around and looked at it again from that angle.
Harkey grinned. “Don’t you see the signal?”
We both looked at him and shook our heads.
“This is the photo that supposedly proved my dad is still alive. See there,” he traced some lines on the photo. “That’s where he made his marks
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